Do You Believe
by Catherine E. Grant
Summary: In the year after Voldemort's 'downfall' at the hands of little Harry Potter, his supporters are rising up in anger against the children and the youth of the world. With her memory gone and strangers around her, is there any hope for Minerva McGonagall?
1. Do You Believe: Prologue

DO YOU BELIEVE ~ Prologue

Author: Catherine E. Grant

Disclaimer: Any character I write about in this series is, unless specified, the property of J.K. Rowling.

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The woman rose from her bed and stole silently to the window. One pale, slender hand pushed away the heavy blinds. She saw her face reflected in the glass; red-eyed, chalky white, tangled black hair framing a haunted expression. Black rims encircled eyes that looked like they hadn't known sleep for a week. 

She stood there trembling. With each slight movement the sheer silk slip clung to her sweaty form, accentuating the gauntness of the figure beneath it. She stared at the glass and the glass stared back. Beyond it, sleet drove viciously at the ground with all the force of a 747 jumbo jet with an autopilot course set for hell.

Why wouldn't the dreams stop? There had to be something wrong with her. Slowly she closed the curtains and sunk listlessly across her mattress. With each dream the feeling of not-belonging increased. But who would believe her if she said anything? She briefly entertained the thought of telling the psychiatrist, the sweet-faced little lady with the glassy eyes and ironbark constitution. Dismissed it. The words 'I'm here to help' never meant 'tell me how it feels to be a cat.'

In her latest dream she was a tabby cat, watching over a house to protect a baby. No, she silently corrected herself, the baby came afterwards. You had to make sure the house was safe for the baby. Before that she'd had images of long robes, queer-looking costumes, towers and spirals and staircases that went nowhere, and creatures that seemed to be dug from the depths of Arabian nights. There was an older man that she knew she could trust, but not once had she been able to see his face. Whenever something floated into her mind she would grasp eagerly at it only to have it dance tantalisingly out of her reach. It was all so frustrating!  


The earliest thing she could remember was waking up in the middle of a busy London intersection, stretched in spread-eagle fashion across the asphalt. Blurry faces had taken her to a large noisy building with lots of people where she had slept, off and on, for what they told her was the better part of a week. They'd given her a name, Sally, when they realised she didn't remember who or where she was. Sally Wilson. Sally I don't feel right here but don't bloody know why Wilson.

She bit her lip. Blood rushed eagerly into her mouth and she swallowed reflexively. Mrs Ramplings would tell her that was a bad sign, but then to Mrs Ramplings everything was a bad sign. Fleshless knobbly fingers would steeple; 'go on,' and she would feel even more confused, and she'd become really depressed, and the woman would just nod and repeat "Ja, very interesting" at appropriate intervals. Nodded like a jack in the box.

Garn.

Was she then going crazy? Probably. 

She slept restlessly that night. Throughout all her dreams, images of a smiling wizard in glasses taunted the woman formerly known as Minerva McGonagall.


	2. Do You Believe: Chapter One

DO YOU BELIEVE Ch.1

Author: Catherine E. Grant ([avatar_31@angelfire.com][1])

  
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Disclaimer: "Sally," Mrs Ramplings, the mouse on the clock and Greenhalls Institute belong to me. Minerva McGonagall or anything/anyone else familiar is the property of J.K. Rowling.

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A/N: After receiving some interesting comments on the prologue, I've decided to clarify a few things. 

Firstly, can I please say that none of my Minerva fics are in any way related to each other? You'll notice that in some storylines I contradict what I define in others. This isn't meant to confuse anyone, it's just that I had a different idea and decided to run with it.

The name Sally Wilson was picked blindly from mid air. It has no real relevance except as a kind of "John/Jane Doe" kind of thing. You notice how amnesia patients etc get given names just so the people looking after them can refer to them, such as in the episode of the Pretender where Jarrod names a lost girl 'Violet' because he sees he playing with such a flower.

Finally, for the origin of the word 'garn', may I draw your attention to this little scene of My Fair Lady: 

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Professor Higgins: "…I suggest she be taken out and hung, for the cold blooded murder of the English tongue!  


Eliza: Garn!

Professor Higgins: Garn! I ask you sir, what sort of word is that? It's her 'ows', and 'garns', that keep her in her place! Not her dirty clothes and dirty face! Why can't the English teach their children how to speak…

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Now that I've gotten that out of my system, we can continue to the story.

Finally.

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DO YOU BELIEVE pt. 1

"Sit down here, please." I obey. I sink against the padded backrest of the seat. Mrs Ramplings glares at me over her glasses. The certificates on the wall behind her tell me that she's qualified to dissect and psychoanalyse me. It does not inspire confidence.

I am not supposed to have confidence. I am a patient. I am a number. I am a new text book study.

"What is your name?"

"Sally. Sally Wilson." The answer they have assigned me comes by rote to my stiff lips.

She frowns. "No, child. I mean your real name. Who are you? You have answers. I know it."  
  
I do not. Would I be sitting here if I did?  
  
I want to scream at her, jump out of my seat and tower over her, tell her she is wrong, I don't remember anything!

Mrs Ramplings taps slowly against her desk with her pen. "Very well. What do you remember?"  


"Waking on the road. Lots of people. Being taking here, sleeping a lot, then just stuff here. Nothing before."  
  
She raises an eyebrow and I suppress a sigh. It is harder to explain each time. Something lurking within her eyes tells me this woman does not believe the answers I am forced to give. What can I say about the dreams that I have? They are strange, and puzzle even me. I think perhaps I had too much of that mushroom soup at dinner last night, because when I woke up this morning I could have sworn I was flying in my dream.

It's a very eerie feeling. The wind, rushing in my hair, flowing cold against my skin in a way so exhilarating. I dive steeply. The broomstick follows my commands and I level out just above the ground. I stretch out my hand and with it, I clasp a little golden ball. I hear cheering.

And I wake.

The dream fades, but the strangeness remains. I do not belong here. "Ja," as Mrs Ramplings would say, "No one belongs here. I hope you can soon leave us."

  
I am praying for that day. Greenhalls London Institute of Amnesiac Care. We are "good" patients; we are not psychiatric cases. We do not scream at the moon or froth at the mouth or through ourselves against the walls of our padded cells. We have nice, though small, rooms, regular meals and daily sessions with our psychiatrists, doctors and exercise yard.

The girl across the hall from me thinks she's a teapot.

It's driving me crazy.

I glance at the clock. Tick, tock. Tick. Back and forth, the pendulum swings. There is a mouse on the clock face. It winks at me. 

I stare at it, and it winks again. It wiggles its tail a little bit. What in the world?   
  
"Sally! Sally! Miss Wilson, please. What have I said to you?"   
  
"Uh, sorry. What did you say?" I try to look earnest. "I'm awfully sorry, Mrs Ramplings, it's ever so hard to concentrate today."  
  
"Huh." She does not believe me. Not surprising, I wouldn't believe me either. 

And the mouse didn't just move again. I am not imagining this. Pictures don't just move. 

Right.

"Christmas."  
  
I blink. "It's only July, Mrs Ramplings." She glares at me again and I wince. What have I said now? Guiltily I sneak another glance at the clock. Five past twelve. That stupid mouse kept distracting me.

She sighs. "_Word association._ I will give you a vord, you will tell me what it makes you think of. We will start again." She consults a large pad and adjusts her glasses.

"Ministry."  
"Ah…government."  
  
"Book."  
"Reading."

"Dementor."  
"What?"  
  
"Hmm…Witch."  
"Salem."  


"Dormitory."  
"People."

"Neighbour."  
"Teapot."  


"Flight."  
"Mushrooms." There had to have been something in that soup.

"Magic."  
"Abracadabra." 

"Broom."  
She's not looking at me but she's reading something on that paper in front of her. Something about me? What does she know? And how does she know my dream?  
"Stick."  


"Bumblebee."  
Huh? "Uh, buzz?" 

Mrs Ramplings makes a few more notes before replacing the pad in her desk draw. "Hmmm….Miss Wilson. Unfortunately, what I had expected but still, necessary. And so in that regard, I don't see any sense in keeping you here any longer. You appear well adjusted despite your unfortunate memory loss; there is no sign of the possible psychological trauma that can arise in such situations and is the focus of the Greenhalls Institute. Perhaps we could progress further with your case if you were to remain, but I believe that you would benefit more if you were transferred to a regular clinic. I am not mistaken when I think you would like to get out of here, no? The relevant State authorities will be given your details and shall attempt to identify you. Your transfer will occur tomorrow."

She holds out a hand and I shake it. Then she bustles me out the door and I am left standing along in the cold corridor while she rings for an orderly to collect me.

I am to leave this place, finally!  
  


   [1]: mailto:avatar_31@angelfire.com



	3. Do You Believe: Chapter Two

DO YOU BELIEVE Ch. 2

Author: Catherine E. Grant (avatar_31@angelfire.com)  
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***  
_Do you know just what you're doing?_

When you throw the rules away

And you believe there's no tomorrow

But you borrow from your tomorrow today

~ Do You Believe, J. Durham

***

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Disclaimer: "Sally Wilson," Mrs Annie Ramplings, Freddie, The Greenhalls Institute and the storyline belong to me. You-Know-Who, Harry Potter, the Death Eaters, the _obliterate _and _avada kedavra_ curses_, _the _accio _charm_,_ Azkaban, Aurors, the Ministry of Magic, Muggles, Quidditch, and of course, Minerva McGonagall and anyone else/thing that J.K. Rowling uses belongs to her.

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I usher the girl out and return to my desk. The cursory medical examination tells me that she is twenty three, but I cannot shake the mental image of a scared little girl. 

Another one. I shake my head. Groan. Stare at my coffee cup. Take another handful of headache tablets. 

I hate dealing with cases like this.

"You is too 'ard on yourself, Annie!" 

"Go away, Freddie." The mouse runs down the clockface, swings on the pendulum and jumps to my shoulder. He makes his way with dignity onto my ink blotter. There he straightens his whiskers and subjects me to a beady glare.

"I is telling you, you can't go taking it all too personally. You know you can't do anything about them."  
  
"No. That doesn't stop me from wishing that I could. All these poor people! It's the Muggles I feel sorry for."  
  
"The children."  
  
I nod, wipe my eyes. It's always the children, always the children that suffer. This girl's youthful appearance, the childlike looks that would have made her the envy of her friends, also made her a target. Ever since little Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who and the last of his loyal Death Eaters went into hiding, children began appearing throughout Muggle London, with their memories obliterated. Magic children, muggle children. Children for the child that defeated the dark lord. Personalities wiped with the brush of a wand. _"Obliterate"_ and it's all gone; every thing that they were, could be, dream of, has vanished from their minds.

We give them names and try to uncover the people that they were, but only rarely do we have any success.

The Death-Eaters do their job too well.   
  
Oh, if I could catch one of them! They'd lock me up in Azkaban but it would be worth it. Every excruciating second of it. 

Recently the victims tend to be Muggles because magic children stay at their schools during the holidays or are kept under the constant protection of older relatives. They can be careful, but the Muggles don't even know what to be frightened of.

"Why is you sending this one away so soon?" Freddie squeaks. He has stepped in my inkpad and is now making trails of footprints on my blotter. I sigh. "There's too many to deal with. She's been checked by witchdoctors, Aurors and Ministry representatives and no one could find any trace of magical ability. She doesn't seem to relate to any magical words and I don't feel confident enough to give her my wand and ask her to say a few magic words! Oh, let's see. Okay Miss Wilson, would you point this stick at me and say Avada Kedavra, please? If I drop down dead well please make a note in your file and send an owl to the Ministry of Magic."

  
He chattered softly. "Na, ah! There's no reason to be sarcastic, there is not! You should not be snapping. I is having a point, I thinks! I winked at her, and I is sure she saw me! Went all funny and quiet and kept staring at me. I is telling you there's something funny about her. She wouldn't have seen me if there wasn't something about her, you knows I's always careful with that!"  
  
"And you're sure you're not being careless?" My words are harsher than I meant. Freddie snorts and jumps onto my sleeve. Silly me for thinking he wiped all that ink onto the blotter. "I is not! I knows what I saws! And she is knowing it too. Maybe she's no little witch but perhaps she has magic blood. Perhaps she is a squib, no? Have you been considering this, Annie? Oh, no, it's ignore the mouse, isn't it? Just ignore the mouse and go around in a stupor. Even if it's nothing I still says that it's worth a try!"  
  
He glares at me. In his teeth he takes a hunk of material and chews it. He spits it out in disgust. "You has plasticised this!"  


"It keeps little curious teeth from ruining my outfits."

"Huh! I is not impressed, is I not! Not at all, not at all. And what is I supposed to be eating, I'd like to know?"  
  
I fix him with the psychiatrist stare that I've perfected. "You are not supposed to be eating _anything, _Freddie. And you were _not_ eating anything until I transfigured you to keep me company. You are a part of that, not a living, breathing creature." I gesture towards the large Grandfather clock. Freddie follows my hand and my gaze, and his expression, if anything, is hurt. "Wood gets hungry too, you know!"

"Oh, alright." I pull out my wand. _"Accio _cheese." A large cube of cheese materialises next to the little creature and he pounces on it. "I is thanking you, thanking you so very much!" he mutters through a mouthful.

What a fool I am. A brooding old woman, crying over the memories she cannot save. Having long and meaningless conversations with a wooden rodent.

This is my life.

"Well? Are you going to speak with her or not?" Freddie looks up at me from the many crumbs of cheese. "Um…"  
"Good, glad that's settled. I is coming too." He runs onto my hand expectantly. I slip him into a pocket of my jacket.

I knock on the door of the girl's room. (Why is it always _the girl? _Or _the boy? The child?_ Why can't I get used to using in my mind the names that the clinic gives them? I guess in my heart it's because I don't want to accept that the people they were are lost forever.)

"Miss Wilson?"  
  
She looks up from her bed. She is lying there and staring out the window. Something haunted hangs around her, off-setting her vulnerability. It's easier to see, here, in the sterility of her room, that in the confines of the office. 

She looks like she's been put through a muggle wine press, dragged out and resurrected on the other side. There is no blood in her chalky features. The rims around her sunken eyes are the only signs of colour. Her hair is limp, tangled, needs a wash. But she doesn't care any more.

She only wants to get out of here. They all do.

"Miss Wilson?" I ask again, and she nods. She looks like hell.

"Do you believe… in magic?"


End file.
